


run (to show that love's worth running to)

by a_static_world



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It of Sorts, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Go To The Coast, Getting Together, Jaskier finally gets to say his piece !, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, eventually, sand :/, so buckle up!, they are in love but it's gonna take a hot second to realize it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28540014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: After the mountain, Jaskier fucks right off to the coast. But not before he has some rather, ah, choice words for Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 12
Kudos: 225





	run (to show that love's worth running to)

“Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s always you shoveling it?”

“Well, that’s not fair-”

“The child surprise, the djinn, all of it! If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take  _ you _ off my hands!”

Jaskier laughs, a sharp, jagged sound that rips itself out of his throat. Twenty-two years. Twenty-two goddamn years of his life he’d dedicated to his fucking witcher, all for this. He laughs again, and Geralt turns back to face him, visibly confused as to why he’s still there.

“Well, unfortunately for you, witcher, I’m here. I’m here, and I’m alive, so stop  _ fucking  _ making up death wishes just to get people to leave.”

Geralt gapes at him, and Jaskier tries not to revel in the fact that he’s flapped the unflappable. Everything he’s longed to say for decades bubbles to the surface, threatens to choke him out. He pauses a moment to catch his breath, order his thoughts in a way that will make sense to even the thickest of audiences.

“Over two decades, I’ve followed you. I shut up, I sucked in the pain and the hurt, because I thought if I was good, you’d want to come back. And so I did, and you did, and I felt justified in that.”

Geralt drops back down to sit on a rock, peeling his gloves off and running a frustrated hand through his hair. But Jaskier’s not done.

“Why won’t you believe I love you if I’m not hurting you, Geralt?  _ Love should not be pain _ . I endured it, because I thought it was. I thought love was pain and taking what you could get and shutting up because that’s what  _ you wanted _ .”

He doesn’t realize he’s yelling until he stops to breathe, and  _ you wanted _ is still bouncing off the mountains around them. He takes a breath, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. Geralt says nothing, eyes slightly wide as Jaskier shucks off his jacket, hot with the midday sun and with anger. 

“I don’t know what it is. You think I’m too good for you, perhaps? Geralt, can’t you see  _ I am just enough for you _ . I am not better than you, you are not inferior to me. But you don’t  _ want _ me to be enough. Because that means- that means you’ll actually have to be content. And so you’ll always run, won’t you?” Gods, that’s it, he’s cracked it. He  _ knows  _ he’s cracked it, because Geralt looks downright stricken. Good. Jaskier’s said his piece, now, and feels like he can finally leave. 

So he does.

He collects his jacket, turns his back on the witcher. Ignores his calls as he makes his way down the mountain, alone. Quite the juxtaposition to when he first came, eh? And what good scenery for future ballads, is it not? A mountain in full bloom, fresh heartbreak, the stench of destiny.  _ But no onions _ . Jaskier clamps down his heart before it can ache, and focuses on getting down the mountain alive.

He manages that, somehow, and spends a night in the inn, paid for courtesy of his lute. Just one night, though; he doesn’t want any chance of leather-clad salt in his still-open wound. He purchases a horse the next day, dodging enquiries about his witcher escort, and pays extra for the stableman’s silence. A little security can’t hurt, even though he’s told nobody where he’s going, and doesn’t plan to.

He spots a man riding into town as he’s riding out, and urges his horse a little faster.

Jaskier goes to the coast, like he’s always longed to. The leagues and leagues of bright blue burn his eyes, and he has to shield them as he sits, buries his feet in the sand. He’s already negotiated with the local alderman, and it brings him a sense of peace to know that the cottage at his back is  _ his _ . A place to make his own, free of every constraint ever placed on him. Free of the scathing eyes of Lettenhove and Oxenfurt, the judgment of mages and witchers and people much grander than himself. He can lend his skills to his new community in any way he pleases.

Jaskier only realizes he’s been drumming his fingers down into the sand when one of them strikes a rock. He digs it out, turns it over in his palm. It’s a pale white, smoothed by time, and his hand aches as he squeezes it. Jaskier brings it to his mouth, kisses it once.

“Fuck you,” he whispers, and throws it into the sea with all his might. 

Jaskier tries his best not to be melancholy. He likes to imagine he threw all his anger, all his contempt into the sea with that rock. A fresh start, in every sense of the word. He introduces himself to the townsfolk as Dandelion, another security measure to put his mind at ease. There’s an opening at the local school, and Jaskier gratefully accepts it. The children he teaches accept him in turn, dogging him with questions about his lute, about the continent; they seem to believe every topic under the sun is known by Master Dandelion, and Jaskier does his best to oblige them.

The first night Jaskier plays in the tavern for the grown folk, his hands slip into old songs without realizing. He watches the crowd, sees as a few faces light up in recognition as he continues to play. Nobody approaches him afterward, though. The bartender only slides him a mug of ale, and when Jaskier goes to pay, the man merely waves him off. The knowledge that  _ they _ know who he is doesn’t burn like it should; no questions, no whispers spread throughout the tavern as he begins his next song. It’s merely an acknowledgement of who he was then, and Jaskier damn near cries at the thought that it doesn’t have to be who he is  _ now _ .

He makes his way back to his cottage that night content, for the first time since he left Geralt on that mountain, what? A month ago? Longer, perhaps. The fire leaps to life beneath his hands, and he shivers as he warms them. Longer, definitely. It was summer when he left; it’s nearing winter, now. Jaskier gets started on his supper, chopping vegetables, throwing them in the pot over the crackling fire. He’s always had an affinity for soups, and he takes no small delight in working the same recipe over and over again until he’s sick of it. Just another perk of his freedoms, he supposes. 

Jaskier hums as he works, an aimless, wordless tune, one that rises and falls as the wind howls outside his house. There’s a gap, between the windowframe and the wall, and Jaskier shivers as cold air brushes the back of his neck, rattling the garlands of dried herbs and fruits strung up around the room. Those were some of the first things to be made when he arrived; the housewarming gifts from the townspeople turned into preservations of kindness. Plus, they smell lovely when Jaskier brushes a hand against them. 

His nighttime routine is concise: eat, wash up (himself and the dishes), set out clothes for the next day, change, sleep. Except the last part tends to evade him. Nighttime is when the memories come back, flooding up his throat, spilling out his nose until he’s choking on them. He wakes up gasping; sometimes his hands feel slick with his own blood, other times he’s shaking with rage. Jaskier forces himself to breathe, talks himself down until he’s able to sleep again. But through it all, nightmares or not, one thing becomes abundantly clear.

He misses Geralt.

Jaskier spends every waking moment making that statement untrue. He immerses himself in teaching, in singing, filling his days with the spectacular mundane. Sitting on the beach until his joints ache, attempting to brew his own beer, learning how to bake bread alongside the tavernkeep’s wife. Both of them (two older women, perhaps twenty or thirty years older than himself) fuss over him constantly, making the trek to his cottage when he doesn’t eat in the tavern to make sure he knows how to feed himself. Jaskier doesn’t mind the nagging, and he jokes that if Anya and Netta didn’t have him to nag over, they’d nag the tavern itself into running better. And through it all, there’s a hook caught in his heart, a line tugging him back towards Geralt.

As beautifully simplistic as his life is, Jaskier’s surprised at how long it takes someone to find him. He’s made it three or four years since the incident, he wagers, before Yennefer shows up at his door, windswept and tense. He lets her into his home, and digs deep for any lingering resentment, any anger that could possibly still burn in his chest. He comes up empty, though, and ladles soup into two bowls as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

They eat in silence, both lost to their own thoughts. He was never really mad at Yennefer, Jaskier thinks. He was jealous, absolutely; jealous because he had to work so hard for Geralt’s attention, and all she had to do was show up. All she had to do was  _ be there _ , and it was like Jaskier disappeared. Now, however, he can’t find it in himself to harbor any ill will toward the mage. Not when Geralt treated her as poorly as he did Jaskier, that day. They were united in that, at least. United by bowls of soup and what Jaskier assumed was a healthy amount of mutual distaste.

He’s clearing their bowls away when Yennefer finally speaks.

“Thank you, bard. Geralt’s looking for you.”

_ Oh. _

He shouldn’t be as surprised as he is. He forces his hands to be steady as he washes the dishes, throwing what he hopes to the gods is a casual “hm?” over his shoulder. 

“He’s with the child surprise - Cirilla - at Kaer Morhen, for the winter, so you’re safe for now. He hasn’t stopped asking around, though, and he’s pretty terrified that you might be dead.”

Jaskier snorts, pouring himself and Yennefer a measure of peach liquor Anya had made over the summer. Typical Geralt, really. Assuming that Jaskier’s silence must mean he’d died.

“Well,” he says, spreading his arms wide. “I’m not.”

Yennefer grins, leaning back in her chair.

“No,” she agrees. “You’re not.”

Yennefer makes monthly trips to see him, after that. Always unannounced, always with a new dress, always Yennefer. She’ll stay for a day, a week, however long she needs to rest for. Jaskier opens his door to her each time, finds himself growing fond of the crabby mage, learning her cues. When to tease and when to listen, when to offer advice or more wine, these are arts Jaskier’s spent  _ decades _ perfecting. He’s glad for the company the mage provides, too. Nothing sexual, though,  _ never _ ; Jaskier regards her more as a sister or petulant cousin than he does a partner. She livens up his little cottage, though, bringing him gifts from her travels, and news of Geralt.

She turns up again as the air grows warmer, and Jaskier’s ticked two moons’ worth of time off. He would’ve been worried had he not known precisely how well Yennefer is able to take care of herself. She sweeps in as usual, but something in her posture is different. There’s a … a defeat, in the way she’s holding herself, and Jaskier turns to his tea shelf as opposed to his alcohol. Soon there’s two steaming mugs of peppermint in front of them, and he waits patiently for the mage to speak.

“Geralt knows I’ve seen you. He’s pissed- well, at me. I think he’s going to try and find you.”

Jaskier sighs, even as his heart twists. He’s always known it would only be a matter of time before Geralt found him, or found  _ out _ about him.

“I made the mistake of portaling directly to Kaer Morhen after staying with you, last time. It’s why I’ve been away so long. He smelled you, smelled the coast, and then shut himself in his room for three days. Jaskier, I’m..sorry. Truly.”

“Thank you, Yen, though I probably should’ve guessed he’d find me sooner or later- I’m not angry, dear, don’t worry. I rather think he and I have some talking to do.”

Yennefer deflates, imperceptible to any eye except those who know her well, and sips her tea. She only stays for three days, and departs his cottage with a message for Geralt. It’s time, Jaskier thinks. Time to apologize for the things said on his end, and see if Geralt decides to own up as well. If he doesn’t, well. He’s let the witcher go once before. He figures he’s probably able to do it again. 

It’s three whole months before Geralt turns up. Jaskier’s convinced himself that he’s forgotten Yennefer ever sent a message. But every time he hears an unfamiliar horse, or a stranger steps on the creaky tavern floorboard all the regulars avoid, he can’t stop his heart from racing. Can’t stop his head from turning, just to check, just in case. Which, perhaps, is why it makes sense that Geralt’s arrival is just as unspectacular as it is.

There’s a knock on Jaskier’s door, and he hurries to open it, dusting flour on his pants. Netta said she’d be bringing the day’s catch by, and though she’s about as spry as one can be at ninety-four, Jaskier still worries about her making the trek to his cottage. He opens the door to find amber eyes level with his, and he fights the urge to move his body and allow Geralt in. They stare at each other for a few moments, and though Geralt’s eyes don’t leave his, Jaskier has the feeling he’s mapping every change to his face. 

“Jaskier, I’m sorry.”

Jaskier blinks. He nods, just once, and allows the witcher into his home.

“Shoes  _ off _ , you brute!” He nags, and Geralt complies. He doesn’t miss the way the other man’s shoulders relax, and the aching familiarity of the situation stuffs cotton into his mouth. So he says nothing, busying himself with the teakettle and fussing over the fire. Raspberry for Geralt, he remembers. He somehow can’t feel angry at the man, even as he’s trying to force some steel into his churning stomach. He’s  _ tired  _ of being angry, he realizes; tired of holding grudges that came about because of hot sun and a little too much destiny. 

“Jaskier, I’m sorry. Truly. It’s...I’ve missed you.”

Jaskier sips his tea, scorches his tongue on the hot water. Geralt’s open in a way he’s never quite experienced, raw and bare before Jaskier’s gaze. Jaskier loves him. He always will, he thinks, no matter how this meeting ends up. It’s a quiet and simple truth, and it burns in his chest, moves his tongue for him. 

“I’ve missed you too. And I’m sorry, as well.”

Geralt smiles at him, warm and bright, and Jaskier has the distinct feeling that if he wanted, he could sip the sunlight right from the other man’s eyes.

Geralt stays. It’s unspoken, but Jaskier doesn’t kick him out, and Geralt doesn’t leave. Ciri’s in good hands, he explains, training at Kaer Morhen with the other witchers and Vesemir. Yes, Geralt stays, lending his strength and skill to the local fishermen. He quickly charms Anya, though Netta puts up a stronger front, having not quite forgiven him for what Jaskier had told her. 

Jaskier’s only got one real bed, so they share, like before. They maintain a careful space between them, neither wanting to push the other, but even so, it’s the best sleep Jaskier’s gotten in years. He doesn’t mention the cot Yennefer uses when she visits. They fall into an easy rhythm, cooking and eating and chatting. He’s tempted to say it’s like nothing’s changed, but  _ everything _ has. The edge and angst and tension of before has mellowed, rounded out at the edges until Jaskier’s tempted to call it  _ domestic _ . 

They spend a month like this, mindful of the space the other needs, easing themselves back into each other’s lives. It’s a dance, a tentative promenade filled with soups and songs and raspberry tea. They soothe nightmares, bake bread, and walk the coastline to their hearts’ content. To  _ Jaskier’s _ heart’s content, at least. He hasn’t quite forgotten the truth of what he said on the mountain. 

They’re on one such walk, now. Jaskier’s got his pant legs rolled, swishing his feet through the water as Geralt walks on the sand. He bends down, and when Geralt stops to look back at him, Jaskier flips a handful of cool seawater into his face. Geralt splutters as Jaskier grins, and before he knows what’s happening, he’s being tugged up and spun back onto the sand. They grapple and tussle for a few minutes, until Jaskier’s breathless, Geralt pinning him down and laughing softly. The witcher flops onto the sand next to Jaskier, stretches his arm out until their hands entwine. 

“I didn’t stop thinking about what you said for a long time, Jaskier. And you were right. I didn’t want you to be enough for me, because I hated myself. I didn’t  _ deserve _ to be content. But I- I hope you realize I would never run from you. I’ve run  _ to  _ you, Jaskier. Because the only person I’ll be content with is you.”

And Jaskier can tell it’s been rehearsed, that Geralt’s been thinking about what to say, how to say it, for no small amount of time. Still,  _ fuck _ . He squeezes Geralt’s hand, rolling onto his side to meet the man’s eyes. Slowly, so slowly, he bends down, kisses him straight on the mouth and oh, gods. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, and by the way Geralt’s reciprocating, the feeling is mutual.

They stay like that, kissing lazy and slow in the sand, until night falls and the beach is too cold for comfort. They race back to their cottage -  _ their _ \- giggling like schoolchildren, slamming the door and immediately picking up where they left off. Geralt’s in the middle of backing them towards their bed when Jaskier stops them. 

“I love you, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt kisses him again, heated and fervent, and attempts to continue their path towards the bed. Jaskier laughs, breaking the kiss to put a hand on Geralt’s chest.

“I said I love you,  _ however _ . There is the small problem of sand, my dear; should we attempt nightly activities in this state, we will surely both end up with sand in places sand should  _ never _ be.”

Geralt shudders, pecking Jaskier’s mouth before nodding and going to retrieve the bathing basin. 

“I love you too, Jaskier.”

Jaskier smiles in the darkness of the room. It’s not the ending he would’ve written for himself; that ending would likely contain more heroics, more fame, a teaching post at Oxenfurt, perhaps. An eternal bitter hatred gnawing at his heart. This ending, though? Spending the rest of his life in a home he built, surrounded by people he loves, with Geralt by his side, well. The first ending pales in comparison. 

**Author's Note:**

> I DID IT  
> fuck how long has it been since i've posted? no clue! but 2020 is over. if you're here, i'm proud of you.   
> i finally listened to love run, as evidenced by both the title and multitudes of lyrics scattered through this - see if you can pick them out !!  
> as always, come find me on [tumblr](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/) for more of my peculiar brand of insanity   
> stay safe and hydrated, and wear your masks. just because 2020 ended doesn't mean covid did!  
> xoxo static


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